


Kiss from a Rose

by Farky_Fark_and_the_Munky_Bunch



Category: One Piece
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Barto's canon ones plus, Cock Piercing, Denial of Feelings, Developing Friendships, Florist Cavendish, Language of Flowers, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Navel piercing, Neighbors, Piercer Bartolomeo, Piercings, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Tongue Piercings, You bet your ass I did, also the actual process of piercing happens in this, but auditory not visual, but plural, but they're really giving it their all anyway, did I ACTUALLY fall into this old trope?, quite a few of them - Freeform, the Straw Hats and co. are terrible matchmakers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farky_Fark_and_the_Munky_Bunch/pseuds/Farky_Fark_and_the_Munky_Bunch
Summary: Cavendish is a new arrival on Loguetown's main street, but what he was hoping would be a fresh start becomes a lot more complicated when he meets the man who lives and works next door.
Relationships: Bartolomeo/Cavendish (One Piece), Basil Hawkins/Scratchmen Apoo, Franky/Nico Robin, Kaya/Usopp (One Piece), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Monkey D. Luffy/Trafalgar D. Water Law, Nojiko/Vinsmoke Reiju, Roronoa Zoro/Vinsmoke Sanji
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Good morning!
> 
> I know it's only Tuesday, but I'm already having a really terrible week, so, I'm coping through writing, as one does. I haven't put up an actual WIP in a long time, but I know where this is going and already have more of it written than just this first chapter, so I'm tentatively saying that it's going to end up with 3-4 chapters and I should be able to get one up per week from here on out until it's finished. 
> 
> Anyway, have a shitty cliche OTP trope because I'm about to get another tattoo (the one I uploaded on my profile that I got commissioned) and I couldn't get this idea out of my head.

Loguetown’s main street had been described many ways: in articles, by word of mouth, from the opinions of those who lived and worked there. It was a popular street, for locals and tourists alike. It was ‘trendy’ and ‘quaint’ and for many people just comfortably familiar. There was a famous diner on the north end, and a decades-old bar on the south. There was a brick-and-mortar sex shop run by a man called the ‘Mad Monk’ for some reason that not even Loguetown’s oldest residents could remember. Beside it was Cannibal Body Modifications, a small shop brightly lit by its street facing windows with art visible on its walls, creating a welcoming image at odds with the aggression of its name. Just next door was a shop that had been vacant for years, only very recently earning a sign above its door that read ‘Beautiful Blossoms,’ and a ‘coming soon’ announcement on its front window. Nestled between the latter two was a narrow staircase, leading up to the apartments situated above the row of shops. 

And it was there that Cavendish was currently struggling with what felt like his thousandth box of the day.

Having friends, or, rather, _not_ having them wasn’t something that Cavendish spent much of his time thinking about. Not, that was, until it had taken him nearly a full day to move all of his stuff into his new apartment. Even in the absence of friends, he knew now that he should’ve hired movers, but it was too late and he was too stubborn to admit defeat so his already aching body was going to suffer for it. 

Knocking the front door shut with his hip, he dropped the box and then lowered himself onto the floor beside it with a groan. He was exhausted, and sore, but according to the clock on the microwave it was just past eight o’clock, so, he figured he could manage an hour of unpacking a few necessities before passing out. 

After going through the small box of non-perishable food he’d brought with him and forcing down a PB&J, he moved on to the bathroom, rendering the shower useable for the morning and digging out the few things he would need before going to sleep. The bed came next, just a mattress on the floor until he decided he had enough energy to put together the bedframe, but it would do for now. 

It had only been twenty minutes by the time he had a pile of blankets and his worn but still acceptably fluffy pillow settled onto the mattress, but it looked inviting enough that Cavendish decided he didn’t care how early it was. He had to open his shop in the morning anyway, so getting a little extra sleep couldn’t hurt, even if it did push back his already off-kilter schedule for settling in and unpacking. 

Teeth brushed and hair pulled loose from the once-immaculate bun it had been bound in twelve hours earlier, Cavendish stripped out of his t-shirt and jeans and dragged himself over to the mattress. He was tucked into a loosely comfortable ball under his blankets and nearly on the verge of sleep when the sound of yelling carried through the wall of the adjoining apartment, jolting him back awake.

“God fuckin’ dammit! This is bullshit!”

Whoever his new neighbor was, he sounded angry, but appeared not to be in a verbal altercation with anyone else, judging by the lack of response. Frowning a little, Cavendish curled up tighter and closed his eyes again, only to be interrupted again a few minutes later. 

“Fuckin’… _fuck_!” And then what sounded like something being thrown at the wall.

Heart beating in a jagged rhythm from the adrenaline of being rudely yanked from sleep not just once but _twice_ , Cavendish crawled out of bed. He had been planning on trying to meet his neighbors in the morning when he looked even marginally presentable, but it seemed that this one in particular was determined to speed up the introduction, with what was going to be a lot less grace and tact than Cavendish had been intending. Grabbing his keys from his discarded jeans, he marched out of his apartment and into the hallway, identifying which apartment the noise was coming from before pounding on the door.

Almost a full minute passed, and he was just raising his fist to knock again when the door swung open. The man standing in front of him was…big, nearly filling the doorframe with broad shoulders and a six-inch advantage in height over Cavendish. Cavendish only had a moment to take in his stature, however, before his attention was taken instead by the bright green of his impressive mohawk and the shine of nearly half a dozen piercings across his scowling face.

“Fuck do you want?” he asked, irritation written plainly on his features. 

Cavendish swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat, feeling his cheeks heat as he took in his neighbor’s state of undress and realized that he was still similarly clad. 

“I…” he started, weakly. “I’m…I just moved in next door. _Just_ moved. As in, just spent my entire day lugging boxes upstairs, and I’m…very tired. And you’re being…very loud.”

“Hm.” The other man crossed his arms over his bare chest, the motion drawing attention to his muscular biceps and the way that— _nope_. Cavendish averted his gaze, but only managed to focus on the low sling of his boxers across his hips instead. “That what all that noise was today? We were takin’ bets. Nobody guessed it was my new neighbor.”

“You…I—” Cavendish could feel his blush deepen, creeping down toward his chest as he struggled to focus on what he was saying. _Of fucking course_ his neighbor had to be not just rude, but incredibly attractive too. “You heard me struggling all day and didn’t think to help at all?”

“Mm…nah.” His neighbor grinned, a lazy smile that pulled back his thin lips to reveal a pair of surprisingly sharp canines. “Made the right choice too, if you’re gonna be the type of neighbor to file noise complaints. At…” He glanced back over his shoulder to check the time. “Not even nine. Liked it better when that flat was empty.”

“I’m quite noticeably _not_ doing that!” Cavendish protested. “I had the decency to just try and talk to you in person but I see now that that was a mistake because you’re a completely inflexible idiot and a…loudmouth.”

The other man laughed, loud and sharp, then bent down until they were nearly nose to nose.

“Hey, neighbor? Fuck off.”

Cavendish gasped. He was tired, and frustrated, and offended, and God, why did he have to move in next to _this_ man?

“You first,” he spat back. And then, both belated and petulant, “Get fucked, asshole!”

“Maybe I will,” his neighbor answered, smirking as he stood back up to his full height. “I’ll make sure to be loud about it too, let ya know what a good fuckin’ sounds like, since I doubt you’ve ever experienced one.”

“I…” Cavendish’s hands clenched into fists at his side and he was only angrier because he could tell how red his face was getting. “Hate you,” he finished lamely.

“Hey.” The other man grinned, shot him a pair of finger guns, and winked. “Right back atcha. Glad we got that cleared up. Now, if ya don’t mind, I’mma get back to my game. Hope ya sleep well, neighbor.”

With that, he turned, and slammed the door shut in Cavendish’s face.

After spending a few seconds staring at the closed door in a positively flabbergasted silence, Cavendish stomped back next door, letting out a cry of barely contained rage when it became obvious that his neighbor had cranked the volume on whatever video game he was playing nearly to full.

“Fuck you!” he hollered, losing all sense of his usual decorum in the face of the prodding taunts from the man next door. 

“Ya ain’t my type!” his neighbor yelled back. 

Cavendish’s strangled exclamation of fury was equally audible, if the other man’s snide laugh was any indication. 

Crawling back into bed, Cavendish buried his head under his pillow in a half-successful attempt to achieve some peace and quiet, and he could have wept in relief when his neighbor’s spiteful streak ended a few minutes later and he was left to fall into a deep, exhausted sleep. 

At least, he mused, as he started to drift off, he would be spending most of his time in his shop and wouldn’t have to be seeing his new, self-diagnosed arch nemesis on a daily basis. 

Small favors.

* * *

“Hey, Barto?”

“Hm?” He looked up from where he was absently picking at his chipping nail polish, leaned against the wall beside the autoclave as it finished its cycle. His two regular employees walked into the back side by side, Hawkins hanging his coat on the hook just inside as Nojiko pulled her hair back into a ponytail.

“Did you get into a screaming match with someone last night? We couldn’t tell what was happening exactly, but it sounded like things were getting pretty rowdy upstairs a little bit before we closed.”

“Oh.” Bartolomeo scowled. “Yeah. Sorta. Somebody finally moved into that empty flat next to mine. I was just hangin’ out and this asshole’s got the nerve to come over and yell at me for bein’ too loud.”

“Mm.” Despite having asked, Nojiko was only half-listening to her boss rant about his new neighbor as she walked back up toward the lobby, but she offered what she thought he was looking for. “Sounds like a real dick.”

“Yeah,” Bartolomeo agreed, following her out with Hawkins in tow and then settling behind the counter to look over their appointments for the day. “Yeah, he is. I hope he just leaves me alone so I don’t have to see his stupid face anymore.”

Did he feel a _little_ bad, seeing how obviously exhausted the guy had been after apparently having moved by himself for what had certainly sounded like most of the day from their spot in the parlor downstairs? Maybe. Did that have anything to do with the fact that his annoying new neighbor was _really goddamn hot_? Absolutely not.

As if on cue, the bell above the door rang and Bartolomeo looked up to see a tall, slender blond man walking into the parlor, looking very uncomfortable and out of place. When their eyes met, he visibly deflated, and Bartolomeo offered a sharp, sardonic grin. 

“Well, speak of the devil.”

Nojiko and Hawkins both looked up at that, sizing up the man in the entryway. They tracked the lingering eye contact between him and Bartolomeo and then shared a short, knowing look. Suddenly, the vehemence of their boss’ complaints made a lot more sense. 

“You work here?” the stranger asked wearily. He didn’t sound, or look, like he’d managed to get much sleep. Barto felt a brief, selfish surge of vindication.

“Yeah,” Bartolomeo answered, propping his elbows up on the counter. “I own the place.”

“Of course you do,” the other man mumbled, bringing both hands up to scrub over his face before he released a long sigh. “I…am sorry, about last night. I…should have been more considerate.”

“Yeah,” Barto agreed. “Ya should’ve.”

A brief flash of anger twisted the other man’s features but he schooled them before the expression could linger. When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. 

“I just came by because I’m opening up the shop next door today and I figured I should introduce myself to the other businesses near me.”

“Oh, you’re the florist?” Nojiko asked, perking up a little and turning toward the conversation happening on the other side of the room. 

He nodded in confirmation. “My name is Cavendish.”

“I’m Nojiko,” she offered. “This is Basil Hawkins, but everybody calls him Hawkins, and that’s—”

“Bartolomeo,” Barto interrupted. “My friends call me Barto, so, just Bartolomeo is fine.”

He looked proud of that particular jab and Nojiko rolled her eyes as Cavendish offered him a flat stare in reply. 

“I don’t want there to be any animosity between us,” Cavendish said evenly. “If we’re going to have to both work and live side by side for the foreseeable future, please just…accept my apology.”

Bartolomeo shrugged dismissively. “Sure. Whatever.”

Cavendish sighed, figured he wouldn’t get anything more than that, and then nodded before looking absently around the shop. “What exactly is this place?”

“Tattoo parlor, shop, art gallery,” Bartolomeo answered with a vague shrug. “Those two are my artists, I do piercings, and we sell local art too. Ya interested in any of that?”

“Maybe the art,” Cavendish answered idly, moving to look at one of the pieces mounted on the wall for sale. 

Barto, Hawkins, and Nojiko all watched him in silence, the latter two with something akin to curiosity, and the former with far more interest than he would ever admit. He’d looked pretty good flustered and mostly naked in his apartment doorway, but in the slim fitting dress shirt and tight jeans he was wearing now… _holy fuck_.

“Well,” Cavendish said, turning away from the painting and interrupting Bartolomeo’s ogling. “I should be going, but, it was…” He hesitated slightly, eyes narrowed when they met Bartolomeo’s. “I’m glad I could meet all of you, and I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

Hawkins waved a hand in a parting gesture, Nojiko wished him well, and Bartolomeo stood stubbornly firm with his hands laced under his chin. When the door closed again, Nojiko let out a laugh of entirely too mischievous glee. 

“I see how it is. You don’t _think_ he’s a dick, you _want_ that dick.”

“They ain’t mutually exclusive,” Bartolomeo snapped, flipping up his middle finger with a snarl when Hawkins snickered at his indirect confirmation. 

And so what if maybe Barto zoned out a little bit during one of his appointments thinking about how that ass had looked in those jeans? So fucking _what_? He was in a dry spell and Cavendish was practically everything Bartolomeo had ever wanted in an ideal partner slapped together and brought to life. 

After locking up for the night, Bartolomeo started to trudge upstairs toward his apartment over the shop, but he caught the shine of dim light from within the shop next door and he hesitated. The sign in the window was still turned to ‘open,’ so he walked in, and was greeted almost instantly by a now familiar voice. 

“I’m sorry, I was just closing up for the night, but…oh. It’s you.”

Cavendish eyed him warily from behind a large display of roses. He had an apron tied around his narrow waist, and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, displaying the entire length of his pale, surprisingly toned forearms. Bartolomeo tore his eyes away, shifting a little on his feet. 

“Hey, uh…” He stuck his hands deep in his pockets and squinted toward the other man. “Cabbage, was it?”

Cavendish’s neutral expression turned to a scowl. “No, Rooster,” he retorted, eyes sweeping up toward the carefully styled crest of Bartolomeo’s brightly dyed hair. “It’s Cavendish. What do you want anyway? Are you just here to bother me and offer a few vaguely borderline insults?”

“How’d ya know I hate vegetables?” Bartolomeo answered, earning a downright sneer from the other man. He snickered and held out both hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, I’ll cut it out. I um, I actually came by to buy somethin’ from ya.”

Cavendish looked at him with open surprise. “You need…flowers?”

“Yeah. They’re uh, there’s symbolism and shit with ‘em, ain’t there?” Hawkins had mentioned something to that effect earlier, and it had given Bartolomeo a positively diabolical idea. 

Cavendish nodded and moved to stand behind the counter. He absently unplugged the little fountain bubbling away atop it and the room fell under a momentary silence. 

“What are you looking for?”

“A bouquet that says ‘fuck you’.”

Cavendish snorted and leaned his elbows on the counter as Bartolomeo settled on the other side of it. “Is that a common sentiment of yours?”

“Not uncommon. Can ya do it?”

“Sure. What kind of a ‘fuck you’ is it? Cheating ex? Customer that didn’t tip? Annoying neighbor that yells too loud when you’re trying to sleep?”

Bartolomeo scowled and Cavendish gave him such a brilliant smile that Bartolomeo was thrown momentarily off kilter. “Um, I dunno. Didn’t know there were different kinds of fuck you.”

“There are where flowers are concerned,” Cavendish replied, leaving to begin gathering a few selections. When he’d collected a good amount, he dumped them onto the counter between them and began to organize them. 

“Alright, so here we have petunias, for anger and resentment, scotch thistle for retaliation, columbine for ingratitude and foolishness, begonia’s sort of a…warning, lavender for distrust.” He paused, fingers playing over the stem of some yellow flower that Bartolomeo didn’t recognize. Not that he actually recognized much beyond roses and tulips. “Is this…um…romantic…at all?”

Cavendish kept his eyes down, and it allowed Bartolomeo to give him another once over, unnoticed. He shrugged. “Maybe. Could be.”

“Then, some yellow carnations, maybe? For disdain and rejection of feelings. And tansy, of course, for a declaration of war. How does that sound?”

Bartolomeo shrugged. “Sure. You know what you’re doin’ more than I do.”

Cavendish nodded at that and began to gather the flowers together, working with quick precision as he bundled them together and then splayed them out in an arrangement that, while aesthetically pleasing, apparently had a great deal of negativity to convey.

“Would you like me to send them anywhere for you?”

“Oh, uh, no,” Barto answered, taking the offered arrangement and digging his wallet from his pocket. “Nah. I can drop ‘em off.”

Cavendish took the offered bills and spent a moment gathering up Bartolomeo’s change before he spoke up again. 

“You know, that arrangement is only really going to pack a punch if the person you’re giving them to understands anything about flower symbolism, and, I find that few people do anymore.”

Bartolomeo chuckled. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Cabbage.”

Cavendish was taken aback by the choice of adjective, then reasoned that he was probably just being mocked and frowned again. 

Barto gave him a wide grin, a little unsettling in its intensity.

“I think this’ll work just fine.”

* * *

Cavendish was in the middle of a minor panic when the knock at his door came. He had one shoe halfway on and a granola bar clenched between his teeth as he nursed the knee he had just rather unceremoniously slammed into one of his many unpacked boxes. 

Of course, he would probably be fine to open the shop a little late. As much as he hated to admit it, his complete ass of a neighbor, Bartolomeo, apparently, had been his first and only customer so far and he knew that it would take a little time for people to even realize that the shop was open and ready for business. Still, as its owner and currently, its only employee, he wanted to stick as close to the hours posted on the window as possible. Accidentally sleeping through his alarm after another night of fitful sleep had not been on the agenda.

“Just a second.”

When no reply came, he assumed that it was just one of the deliveries he was still expecting to complete the move, so he took the time to finish eating, pull his hair back in a high ponytail and tie both of his shoes before opening the door. 

“Oh.”

He stared dumbly down at the bouquet of flowers sitting outside his door. It was beautifully arranged, composed of…petunias…scotch thistle, columbine, begonia, lavender, and of course, tansy, for a declaration of war. 

The attached note read ‘for someone who still knows flower symbolism. xoxo Barto.’

Cavendish’s eyes caught the yellow carnations and he felt his face heat with a flush of indignation. ‘Maybe,’ he had said. ‘Could be.’ As if. If this was that man’s idea of flirting, it was no wonder he was single. Probably. Cavendish couldn’t imagine who would want to actually _date_ someone with such a repellent personality, but then again, maybe Bartolomeo wasn’t interested in _dating_ , and well, he had other features that were…very, _very_ attractive…

“I’m going to kill him.”

Although he was inordinately pissed for so early in the morning, Cavendish wasn’t a _monster_ , so he took a few minutes to get the flowers settled into a vase before heading downstairs. 

“How _fucking_ dare you?!”

Cannibal’s front door slammed into the wall, bell ringing frantically above it. There was a young man with a lot of very curly hair pulled back into a ponytail trying to hang a painting on the wall and he yelped at Cavendish’s dramatic entrance. A petite blonde woman was sitting on the couch in the lobby, eyes wide, and both strangers stared at him as he looked around the room.

“Where is he?” Cavendish asked, losing a marginal amount of his rage in the face of their confusion.

“Uh…” The young man exchanged a look with his companion before stammering out an attempt at a reply. “I don’t know who you’re talking about…and I’ve never met you before, but you’re yelling and I don’t know what’s happening—” 

Before he could get much farther, Bartolomeo interrupted.

“Back here, Cabbage.” The response was infuriatingly calm, and Cavendish stomped toward the back to find Bartolomeo sitting in his cubicle. He was bent over as he traced a tattoo to help Nojiko get ahead on her work for the week, tongue sticking out between his lips in concentration. Cavendish caught the shine of a piercing through it and the rush of heat that filled his gut made his anger flare back with a vengeance. 

“How _fucking_ dare you,” Cavendish repeated, more a hiss than a yell now that the target of his fury was within firing range. Bartolomeo didn’t even look up.

“Ya got my flowers?” he asked, feigning ignorance. 

Hawkins stuck his head out from behind the wall to Cavendish’s right, the tattoos that approximated his eyebrows rising. “You got him flowers?” He and Nojiko exchanged a glance and she hid her smirk before Bartolomeo could catch it. 

“Yeah.” Bartolomeo finally looked up, but his gaze completely bypassed Cavendish to land on Hawkins instead. “Paid him to make a ‘fuck you, asshole’ arrangement and dropped it off at his door on my way in. Ain’t that what good neighbors are s’posed to do?”

The howl of laughter from Hawkins’ studio space confirmed that Apoo was currently wasting his free time in the parlor, and had been brought up to date on the developing rivalry between Bartolomeo and Cavendish by his boyfriend. 

Cavendish flushed, feeling like he was the butt of an elaborate joke orchestrated by this infuriating man’s entire circle of friends, acquaintances, and employees. His vision got a little swimmy, and he realized with mounting embarrassment that tears were welling unbidden to spill over his lashes. 

“Fuck you,” he mumbled, weak and sniffly. He saw Bartolomeo raise his head again, but before their eyes could meet, he turned on his heel and all but ran out of the parlor and back to the safety of his own shop. 

It was quiet and dark inside of Beautiful Blossoms, which should have been a relief, but only made the sound of Cavendish’s hiccupping sobs seem louder in the small space. He didn’t really know why he was so upset. It was just a stupid prank, one that he had actually benefitted from in the long run since Bartolomeo had paid him to put it into action. 

He was just lonely and tired and overwhelmed in a new town, with a brand-new business that wasn’t actually getting any business, and he had somehow managed to fully alienate the one person he couldn’t avoid in less than forty-eight hours. 

The door opened behind him and he felt his heart sink to his stomach when he realized that he hadn’t locked it. 

He wiped his tears away with his sleeve and tried his best not to sniffle as he spoke toward the figure behind him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not actually open yet, come back in half an hour.”

Bartolomeo stared toward the hunched over figure in the middle of the dark shop. He shuffled his feet and then sighed heavily. “‘S me, Cabbage.”

Cavendish turned, eyes puffy and rimmed with red. “What do you want?” He sounded tired, and hurt, and Bartolomeo felt a not insignificant surge of guilt. 

Barto stepped forward, moving to stand in front of him so he didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Cavendish looked up at him from beneath the damp line of his pale lashes, bottom lip jutted in a slight pout, and Bartolomeo felt a not insignificant surge of…something else entirely. 

“I mean it, Cavendish. I’m sorry. I’ve been an asshole for no good reason, and I didn’t mean to upset ya the way I did. Your apartment’s been empty for years so I forgot how thin the walls are, and I forgot someone was movin’ in, and then I wasn’t expecting _you_ , and I reacted badly. I’ll try to get better about the noise, really. As for the rest…” He shrugged and stuck out a hand. “Truce?”

Cavendish just stared at him for a long moment. Then, he broke into a grin, bright with relief and gratitude and boy did it make Bartolomeo feel like an absolute piece of shit. 

Cavendish shook his hand and nodded. “Truce.”

“I know ya said ya aren’t open yet, but…are there any flowers I could buy to say ‘I’m sorry I was a dick, please forgive me?’”

Cavendish laughed softly. “That’s why most men buy flowers, so, yes. But I don’t think I could take it if you were my only customer two days in a row, so, just the apology is fine.”

Bartolomeo frowned slightly and looked around the shop. “Why don’t you put somethin’ together that we can put in the window? I can have Usopp do a little window art to point people your way if they notice it.”

“Really?”

Barto winced slightly at the genuine disbelief in Cavendish’s voice. “Yeah, really. Business for you is good for us too, and it’s the least I can do. Urouge helped us when we were first gettin’ started out. You met him yet?”

“Is he the one who owns…” Cavendish made a vague gesture in the direction of the sex shop and Bartolomeo cocked the ridge of his brow. 

“Karmic Punishment? Yeah. He’s a nice guy, but be careful. You’ll go in there to see if he wants you to grab him anything when you’re on a lunch run and next thing ya know you’re walkin’ out with a fuckin’…dragon twister dildo and three different flavors of lube that ain’t even gonna get appreciated since they’re just…” He made a gesture indicative of the sentiment ‘gettin’ shoved up your own ass’ and Cavendish laughed despite the light flush across his cheeks. 

“Speaking from experience?” he teased, his smile growing when Bartolomeo blushed. 

“Maybe. Just tryin’ to warn ya.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” 

They both just looked at each other for a moment before each of them glanced away, Cavendish clearing his throat as Bartolomeo shoved his hands back in his pockets. 

“I’ll uh…I’ll leave ya to it, I guess. If ya want to put somethin’ together or have us do a window display just head over when you’re free and I can make it happen.”

“Alright. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

And although he meant it, Bartolomeo was just skeptical and self-deprecating enough not to believe it until Cavendish walked into the shop an hour before close with a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Hello, Cavendish.”

He offered a small wave.

“Hello. Is Bartolomeo still here?”

“Yes.” Hawkins had finished his appointments for the day and was settled onto the couch in the lobby, hands shuffling idly through a deck of tarot cards as he leaned against the man beside him. “He’s finishing up his last appointment. He should be out soon. Would you like me to do a reading for you?”

Cavendish frowned slightly, eyes flicking from Hawkins to his companion and then toward the back of the shop where he could faintly hear Bartolomeo’s deep voice interspersed with that of an unknown woman. 

“Okay.”

He sat down in the chair across from them, and when Hawkins didn’t look up from his cards, the man beside him rolled his eyes and put down his phone to offer a hand to Cavendish. 

“Hey, I’m Apoo. I don’t work here with these losers, but I’m dating this one,” He nudged Hawkins roughly with his shoulder and earned a haughty sniff of disapproval. “So I’ll be around.”

“Cavendish. I own the shop next door, and I live next to Bartolomeo.”

 _“Oh…”_ Apoo broke into a wide grin. “You’re the hot florist.”

Hawkins jabbed an elbow into Apoo’s stomach, prompting an exaggerated coughing fit. “Be quiet, Apoo,” he hissed, before casting a sympathetic glance toward Cavendish. 

“I’m sorry. Don’t listen to anything he says, he’s an even bigger idiot than my boss, if you can believe that.”

Cavendish laughed it off, but he felt a slight twinge flutter to life in his stomach as his cheeks grew warm. Had…Bartolomeo said something to that effect? Or was Apoo just projecting a set of similar physical features from his boyfriend onto Cavendish and being a natural flirt? 

Before he could get too deep into his thoughts on the matter, Bartolomeo came strolling out from the back behind a young woman with a fresh piercing in her bottom lip. He looked surprised to see Cavendish in the lobby, and raised a hand in a brief greeting before cashing his client out and then wandering over to join them once she’d left. He squished himself onto the couch on the other side of Hawkins, earning a disgruntled huff that was ignored by both of the much larger men in his personal space.

“Evenin’, Cabbage. Ya just bored or are you here to take me up on my offer?”

“The latter. But Hawkins was going to give me a reading that you just rudely interrupted.”

Bartolomeo waved a dismissive hand. “He’s always got his cards on him. You can do it some other time. We’ve always got people just hangin’ around the shop, addin’ you to the mix won’t be too much of a bother.” He caught sight of the flowers that Cavendish had set beside his chair and nodded toward them. “Those for me?”

“Yes,” Cavendish answered unthinkingly. He saw Apoo’s face positively light up and Hawkins prep a warning jab and hastily corrected himself. “I mean, no. They’re for the shop.”

Barto looked a little flustered, but he nodded and stood back up again, holding out a hand for them. “C’mon. Let’s get ‘em in the window and then we can talk about what ya want Usopp to do for you.”

As the door closed softly behind them, Nojiko took Bartolomeo’s vacant spot on the couch. She, Hawkins, and Apoo all watched in silence as Bartolomeo and Cavendish stood together on the sidewalk outside the shop, talking, laughing, and generally looking more flustered around each other than either of them seemed to have noticed themselves. 

“How long do we give it?” Nojiko piped up.

“Before they fuck?” Apoo clarified crudely, earning a swat from Hawkins. 

Nonetheless, Hawkins was the first to give an answer. “Two months.”

“Really? I say…one, _max_.”

“You’re both outta your minds,” Apoo said with a snort. “Look at ‘em.”

Three pairs of eyes all turned back in their direction to see Cavendish standing on his toes and making a sweeping gesture across the window. Barto stood a few steps back from him, nodding along as if he was paying attention, but with his eyes firmly fixed to Cavendish’s ass. When Cavendish stepped back, Barto's eyes snapped up again and he held up both hands to frame a certain spot on the window. Cavendish's gaze followed the motion, teeth unconsciously sinking into his bottom lip when he got noticeably distracted by the bulge of Bartolomeo's biceps beneath his short sleeves. Nojiko laughed and Hawkins’ lips twitched into a smirk. 

“I’m saying…a week,” Apoo offered, shifting to dig his wallet out from his back pocket. “Twenty dollars to whoever’s closest.”

“Don’t put money on our boss getting laid,” Hawkins deadpanned. He set his deck down on the table and absently flipped a card off the top, frowning at the reversed Hanged Man that greeted him.

“Too late, babe.” Apoo slapped a crisp twenty-dollar bill into Nojiko’s upturned palm and then settled back to keep watching with a wide grin.

“May the best man win.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This chapter ended up being longer than I was expecting without really getting very far in my timeline, so I'm thinking this is probably going to get stretched out to five chapters. Also, just for reference because it's going to be used as my method of time-keeping for the rest of this story, everybody's bets on Cav and Barto getting together are relative to their first meeting and not to the other bets being made. So like, when one section is a month later and the next is two months later, it's still just two months from where we started at the beginning of chapter one and not three months, if that makes sense.

_Eight days later, to Apoo’s dismay._

“Ow! Shit! _Fuck!_ ”

Bartolomeo glanced toward the wall with a frown. Despite how thin the walls between their apartments were, Cavendish had been a generally very quiet and considerate neighbor, so far. Outbursts like this were few and far between. 

“You alright, Cabbage?”

“Yeah,” came the sullen reply, barely audible now. “Sorry.”

Barto finished dumping his takeout onto a plate and grabbed the extra container he’d just put into the fridge. Balancing both precariously with two pairs of chopsticks in hand, he made his way into the hallway and thumped his head unceremoniously against Cavendish’s door. When it opened immediately it was all Bartolomeo could do not to fall right into him.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” Cavendish’s hands shot out, bracing against Bartolomeo’s stomach to help him regain his balance and then lingering once he had been righted. 

Bartolomeo cleared his throat and Cavendish yanked his hands away as if they’d been burned, a hot flush rising to his cheeks.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Quit apologizing,” Barto griped, stepping in and kicking the door shut behind him. “I figured all the bangin’ around was you tryna unpack, so,” He plunked the unopened takeout box down on top of the closest stack of boxes and maneuvered himself down onto the floor with his plate. “I brought my extra fried rice. Take a break, eat, and then tell me what I can do to help.”

Cavendish frowned down at him for a moment, but a loud grumble from his stomach made up his mind and he settled onto the floor across from Bartolomeo.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

They ate in silence, and evidently, Cavendish was a lot hungrier than he’d realized, actually finishing off the container of rice a little before Bartolomeo had managed to shovel all of his into his mouth with an improperly utilized pair of chopsticks. 

“If I knew you’d been livin’ like this I’d’ve barged in sooner.”

Cavendish’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? I’m doing…okay.”

“Ya don’t even have a real bed yet, Cabbage,” Barto argued, shooting a pointed look at the mattress across the room. “No wonder you always look so tired.”

“Oh.” Cavendish looked away, self-consciously untying his hair in an attempt to distract from the fatigue that was apparently evident on his features. “Do I?”

“Yeah. I mean…ya don’t look _bad_ , just, like ya haven’t gotten much sleep. Which makes sense now.”

Cavendish sighed, absently rolling the strain from his shoulders and neck. “I just never want to come home from work and put together all of my furniture. Maybe if I was a little more handy, or if I’d managed to find anyone to help out at the store yet, but, no luck on both accounts.”

“Well,” Barto offered, getting back to his feet. “I dunno if I’m ‘handy,’ but if piercing ain’t detail work I don’t know what the fuck is, so, I think I can help with the furniture. And maybe the employee thing too actually. Ya met Franky or Robin yet?”

In the week plus that Cavendish had been living and working on Main, he had met an extraordinary amount of people, and almost all of them in the lobby or back room of Cannibal Body Modifications. Aside from Hawkins and Nojiko, Bartolomeo paid Usopp part time to keep up the interior and try to help sell some of the art on the parlor walls, most of which he had painted himself. Cavendish had first met him and his girlfriend Kaya during his altercation with Bartolomeo at the shop, and then again under better terms, and after a sheepish apology for his temper. 

Apoo was around a lot, and although Cavendish hadn’t quite figured out what he did for a living, he had gathered that Apoo made it a dedicated pastime of his to bother his partner as much as possible. As long as it didn’t interfere with his work, Hawkins took it in stride.

Nojiko’s girlfriend on the other hand, while mentioned frequently, had yet to actually make an appearance. Similarly, he’d heard of but had yet to meet the boyfriend of one of Cannibal’s regular customers, a sullen and heavily-tattooed heart surgeon, and the wife of another, a massive and astonishingly energetic construction worker. 

“Franky, yes, briefly. Robin, no.”

“Well, she’s into gardening and shit like that, and I know she’s lookin’ for somethin’ part time for when she’s not at the library, cause they’re tryin’ for another kid and gotta save up some extra cash.”

“Hm. Alright. Could you give her my number?”

Bartolomeo located the box with Cavendish’s unassembled bed frame and turned away to begin opening it as he hid a triumphant smile. 

“Could if I had it.”

“Oh. Um…could I see your phone?”

Barto tossed it toward him and got it back a moment later. 

“You’ll need to look at the bottom of the C’s,” Cavendish noted. “I put in my actual name.”

“That’s alright.” Bartolomeo frowned down at the instructions in his hand as he finished in a mumble. “I’ll just change it later.”

Cavendish’s indignant huff was ignored. 

An hour later, the apartment looked like far more of a mess than it had to start, owing to the piles of cardboard and plastic accumulated across the floor. But, Cavendish had a proper bed, and a coffee table, and a nightstand, which made it feel infinitely more like home. 

“Whaddaya think?”

Cavendish flopped down onto his bed with a sigh of relief, earning a smile from Bartolomeo beyond his field of vision. 

“It’s a good start.” He turned his head and caught the fond tilt of Barto’s lips before he could hide it, sending a pleasant flutter through his stomach. “Thank you.”

“No problem, Cabbage.”

Bartolomeo was just picking up his plate and heading for the door when Cavendish spoke up again, propped up on his elbows on the bed. 

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Barto looked over, taking in the soft flush of exertion across Cavendish’s features, the glisten of sweat at his temples, the slight parting of his lips. The loose plot of a dozen pornos flooded unbidden to fill his mind. 

_“Hey Barto, help me test out this new bed?”_ maybe, or _“Sure, baby, I’ve got somethin’ **big** you can help me with.”_

One of Cavendish’s eyebrows lifted and Bartolomeo realized that he was staring dumbly at him from the middle of his apartment, too distracted by the thought of getting to rail him on top of his new—and incredibly sturdy, thank you _very much_ —coffee table to have processed the actual meaning of his statement. 

“Huh?”

“I asked if there was anything I could help you with. Since you’ve been helping me out a lot.”

“Oh. Uh…” Barto shrugged, shifting his grip on the plate in his hands in a gesture just barely smooth enough not to be noticed as the attempt to hide his visible semi that it was. “You could get a piercing.”

Cavendish offered a look of surprise. “I…haven’t ever considered it.” But now he was, and the thought of Bartolomeo’s hands on his bare skin was…not something he could deal with while he was still standing in his apartment across from him.

“Well, it was just a joke,” Bartolomeo backtracked, mentally kicking himself. “I mean, if ya _want_ one, I’d be happy to do it, but, don’t let me make you feel like you should do anything ya don’t want to. But really, uh, nah. You don’t gotta do anything. I’m still just trying to make up for givin’ ya a shitty first few days here.”

“Mm.” Cavendish’s lips curled up. “Keep bringing me food and I think I’ll forgive you eventually.”

Barto chuckled. “Fair enough.” 

Cavendish was still comfortably reclined on his newly elevated bed, a content expression softening his features as he silently met Bartolomeo’s gaze. Barto wanted to say something else, maybe tell him that he enjoyed his company, or that they should try to spend more of their free time together, but, things between them still felt too tenuous, too uncertain, so instead he headed for the door.

“G’night, Cabbage.”

“Good night, Rooster.”

Bartolomeo hesitated with a hand on the doorknob and Cavendish felt his heart stutter, his breath hitching in anticipation. Then, he turned it, waved, and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Cavendish to flop back down onto his mattress with a heavy sigh of disappointment. 

Maybe next time.

* * *

_One month later, to Nojiko’s disbelief._

It wasn’t exactly a surprise to see Cavendish in Cannibal’s lobby when Bartolomeo popped back out front after his last appointment, but, Barto wasn’t expecting to find him leaned over the jewelry display case with a look of contemplation. 

“Hey,” Barto said, closing the cash register with a clang and moving around to stand on the other side of the case from him. “Ya finally gonna take me up on my offer?”

Cavendish looked up, eyes lingering on the visible cut of Bartolomeo’s shoulders now that his one-on-one customer-centered work was finished and his sweatshirt had been abandoned in the back room. 

“I don’t know. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Hmm…” Barto looked down into the case, his eyes finding a pair of straight titanium barbells capped with pale blue gemstones. He grinned, eyes flicking back up toward Cavendish’s pensive expression. 

“This set’s on sale. The gems match your eyes and I think they’d look real nice through your nipples. Whaddaya say?”

Cavendish tried to keep his features neutral as his heart beat a rapid, uneven rhythm in his chest. “Oh?” he deflected. “Do you spend a lot of time thinking about my nipples?”

Bartolomeo’s smile looked positively predatory. “Well, I don’t _not_ think about ‘em, Cabbage.” He leaned his elbows on the case and bent down a little, close enough that Cavendish could feel the warmth of his breath as it fanned across his face. “Ya know, I’ve heard you’re s’posed to match your lip color to your nipples.” He nodded toward the sheen of Cavendish’s lipstick, gnawed halfway off by the unconscious tugging of his teeth. “They that pretty a shade of pink?”

When they were here, around other people, Bartolomeo achieved a level of confidence that brought out the bravado which allowed him to so casually tease and flirt until Cavendish’s stomach felt like a very confusing molten pool of migrating butterflies. But when they were alone he got a little unsure, much more understated and seemingly comfortable with their existing level of friendship, if that’s what it was. Cavendish wished desperately that there was a middle ground that he could trust to be honest about which end of the spectrum housed his true feelings. 

But he could give as good as he took, if that’s what Bartolomeo wanted. 

When he looked back up at him, Cavendish’s eyes were half-lidded, the bright light of the display case giving them a dark, alluring glow. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Rooster?”

“Mm.” Bartolomeo made a low sound, somewhere between affirmative and noncommittal, not quite the full ‘yes’ that would bring the tension simmering between them to a boil. His gaze was steady, dark, and intense. 

“How many piercings do you have?”

Cavendish leaned in, chin coming down to rest on the heels of his palms as he lessened the already scant space between them. 

“Eight,” Bartolomeo answered. “But I probably ain’t done yet.”

Cavendish’s gaze swept over his face, lips moving slightly in a silent count. Barto saw him get to five and then grinned when his brow furrowed. 

“If I showed ya the rest right now I’d get arrested for indecent exposure.”

Cavendish frowned, but a half second later his eyebrows shot up, mouth forming a perfectly comical ‘o’ of realization. He flushed when Bartolomeo’s grin sharpened and his fingers curled in a white-knuckled grip around the edge of the case as a wave of arousal slammed through him.

“Ask nicely and I can take ya up to my apartment instead.”

Cavendish’s lips parted, ready to accept the invitation so quickly it would be embarrassing, but before he could say anything, a third pair of elbows came down on top of the display case, followed by a long acrylic nail tapping against the glass. 

“Barto, sweetie, could you stop eye-fucking our lovely local florist over the case and get this one out for me, please?”

The scowl that Bartolomeo threw in Nami’s direction was positively venomous, but she just smiled sweetly as Cavendish came to his senses and straightened back up. A rush of heat flooded his cheeks when he realized how close he had almost come to telling Bartolomeo just how badly he wanted to get his hands and whatever else he’d allow on his—god, _fuck_ , _**pierced**_ —dick. Cavendish’s fantasies were about to get just specific enough that he wouldn’t be able to keep denying who they were about.

By the time Bartolomeo was finished helping Nami, Cavendish was gone. He banged a fist softly against the counter and swore viciously under his breath. 

“Fuck.”

So close.

* * *

_Two months later, to Hawkins’ placid acceptance._

Much to Cavendish’s delight, Robin was very willing to help out at the shop, given that none of her shifts started before 4pm and that she was able to bring her five-year-old daughter along on the nights that Franky wasn’t able to pick her up straight from her preschool classes. Cavendish was happy with those stipulations, and by the end of his second month in Loguetown, he’d also added an eccentric, flower-loving older man named Heracles to his payroll, giving him an almost staggering amount of free time compared to what he’d grown accustomed to. 

He spent most of it finally ridding his apartment of its last few boxes, or spending time in the shop next door. 

By that point, he’d met the rest of the large crew that had claimed Bartolomeo’s lobby as its unofficial headquarters. Law’s boyfriend Luffy was an energetic and compact font of energy, lighting up any room he was in with an easy smile or an infectious laugh. He was a streamer of some renown, apparently, despite his age, and although he was a regular fixture at the parlor, Bartolomeo, having been a fan first, still always got a little flustered around him in a way that Cavendish would be hard-pressed to admit was absolutely fucking adorable.

Reiju was a much more understated addition to the group, except where her girlfriend or her brother was concerned. Sanji was the head chef at the diner on Main, but if the rages he regularly went on were any indication, he was _this_ close to quitting and opening up his own restaurant, something that his partner Zoro always gave his solid and unwavering support to. 

Brook had retired from a career as a rock musician to open the record shop across the street, Chopper was a medical student at the local university who had been subsumed into the group in a way Cavendish didn’t fully understand, and Jinbe just seemed to be along for the ride, always laughing at the antics of the crew’s younger members or offering sage life advice in their frequent but fleeting moments of crisis. 

And somehow, Bartolomeo was at the center of it all, housing a veritable whirlwind of near-constant activity on one particularly comfortable couch, two chairs, and a wide windowsill. He was almost always working, and when he wasn’t, odds were high that he was still at the shop. He was obviously enamored by the people who had chosen to revolve around him, in a very intense but endearing way, and although Cavendish silently and selfishly wanted more, he was content enough to just be one of their number. 

It was close to six on a Tuesday evening when Cavendish found himself behind the counter at Beautiful Blossoms, chin in his palm and almost fully asleep when Robin’s voice broke him out of his doze. 

“Are you feeling alright, Cavendish?”

His eyes snapped back open to find her standing before him with a look of concern. A brief glance over her shoulder found Wendy in her favorite spot by the display of sunflowers and his lips twitched upward. 

“Yes, I’m sorry. I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

The reason for that was, well, wholly embarrassing. He’d been busy for almost six weeks straight, busy enough that he didn’t have much of the down time that his body required, and it had caught up to him a few nights ago when he had woken to damp, sticky sheets and the lingering memory of a particularly detailed dream involving his own ass and the tongue piercing that belonged to the owner of a certain local tattoo parlor. That had sent the vague consideration of getting a piercing of his own back to the forefront of his mind, and he’d been staying up too late lately doing an obsessive amount of research, all for what was going to be just a few minutes of contact through a pair of gloves. He’d never been so horny or ashamed in his entire life, let alone simultaneously and about a man like Bartolomeo.

“Franky’s next door with Nojiko for the next few hours,” Robin replied. “I wouldn’t mind closing up if you need the rest of the night off.”

Normally, Cavendish would’ve waved her aside and told her to enjoy what was supposed to be one of her nights off, but he knew she wouldn’t be offering if she wasn’t truly willing, and he _did_ need a break. 

“Alright. Sure. I appreciate it.”

She already had her own set of keys for the shop, so he just gathered up his things and let Robin know about a few orders for the next morning before making his way out. Wendy stopped him at the door with a knee-crushing hug to his leg that felt very reminiscent of her father and a quiet, polite, “Good night, Mister Cabbage,” that had obviously been instilled by her mother. 

The name had developed after Wendy, immediately taking to her mother’s new employer but unable to correctly pronounce his name, had asked in typical five-year-old fashion why she couldn’t just call him daddy too. She had friends with two daddies so she didn’t see the issue, but it had nearly put Franky in tears, so Robin had gently guided her through a few other options. ‘Mister’ had been offered up at the same time that the doors had flown open with a loud “Oi, Cabbage, what do ya want for lunch?” and the combination had stuck.

Unbeknownst to Cavendish, the first use of that particular epithet within Bartolomeo’s earshot, coupled with Wendy’s position on Cavendish’s hip, had sent Barto flying into the back room in a near panic. He’d feverishly asked a taken-aback Hawkins if it was okay to think that it was hot that Cavendish was good with kids, only for Hawkins to offer a vague shrug and the unsurprising revelation that neither he nor Apoo was blessed with that particular talent. He’d offered to consult his cards, but Bartolomeo had been avoiding his tarot deck like the plague for his own personal reasons, so he had been waved off. 

When Cavendish opened the door to his apartment, it was surprisingly quiet next door. It was one of Bartolomeo’s days off, and he hadn’t seen him through Cannibal’s windows on his way upstairs, but maybe he’d just been hidden away somewhere out of view.

Dumping his clothes straight into the washer to prep an overdue load of laundry, Cavendish padded toward the bathroom. He waited in a sleepy daze for a few minutes as the water warmed up before stepping into the shower. 

His hair had already been worked to a lather between his fingers and he was reaching for the bar of soap when he heard the first sound from the other side of the wall.

It sounded like the creaking of springs, which wasn’t all too surprising. Barto was prone to napping on his days off, and Cavendish knew from the one time he’d briefly been in Bartolomeo’s apartment that his bedroom shared a wall with his bathroom.

But then it came again. And again. In a steady rhythm that had Cavendish’s mind working into overdrive. He froze in place, straining to hear better over the water and through the barrier between them, and…yeah, okay. That was definitely a moan. Fuck. 

Cavendish began to scrub the bar of soap so aggressively that it nearly shot out from between his palms, trying in vain to ignore the faint sounds from the neighboring apartment. So, Bartolomeo was getting laid, good for him. Way to go.

Except…

From what he could make out, most of the moaning sounded…fake. Almost…theatrical. And…

Cavendish’s eyes widened in realization, his sudsy fingers slowing their descent across his torso.

Bartolomeo was watching porn. And it was only the softer, deeper sounds carrying through the thin layer of their walls that he was making. 

Cavendish felt his dick twitch with interest and a surge of guilt filled his chest. He shouldn’t be getting hard to the sounds of his neighbor jerking off, and _definitely_ shouldn’t be thinking about doing the same and getting off to another man’s orgasm.

One of his fingers slipped down to brush over the dip of his navel and his eyes fluttered shut at the spark of sensation that shot up his spine. The other hand moved lower, wrapping loosely around his half-hard cock and working over it until it was throbbing against his palm, his teeth fixed firmly in his bottom lip to keep himself quiet. 

So, this wasn’t his proudest moment, but he was pent up, and ungodly attracted to a man he couldn’t seem to actually confess his feelings to. And _goddamn_ if the low, desperate sounds traveling almost inaudibly through the wall weren’t really fucking sexy. He wondered what Bartolomeo would sound like when he wasn’t holding back, how his name would sound in that deep voice, low and raspy with arousal. 

When his knees buckled, Cavendish slumped against the wall, hand making quick work over the head of his cock as he took a moment to double up on his shame and imagine Bartolomeo on his knees. The way that the barbell through his tip of his tongue would feel as it flicked up over the tip of his dick, pressing tight against the slit as it leaked pre-cum…he came hard enough to see stars, spilling over his fist and his own stomach as a veritable growl from next door made a second rush of arousal snap through him, wringing him dry. If he’d had enough presence to hear anything beyond the ringing of his own ears, Cavendish might have heard the sound of his own name through the wall as Bartolomeo came just a moment later, both of them oblivious to the irony of it all. 

In a fleeting moment of clarity when his eyelids slowly lifted again, Cavendish made his decision, and made up his mind to go to talk to Bartolomeo before he could lose his nerve. 

He scrubbed off hastily and then escaped the shower, tugging on a pair of loose shorts and a t-shirt before going straight over and pounding on Bartolomeo’s door. 

It opened nearly a minute later, Bartolomeo appearing in the narrow crack to peer cautiously into the hallway. When he saw Cavendish standing there his eyes widened, a hot flush blooming instantly over his cheeks. He’d thought that Cavendish was working for another few hours, but he looked freshly showered, which meant that he’d been in his apartment a few minutes ago and…oh, God. “Uh…h-hey,” Barto stammered, feeling as if he might just burst into flames and burn down to ash in front of him. “What’s up? Was I…bein’ too loud again?”

His dark eyes were still a little hazy, the familiar sated glow of a recent orgasm evident beneath the burning red of his swiftly deepening flush. He looked preemptively mortified, no doubt imagining what that meant Cavendish had heard, and for a moment, Cavendish considered saying yes.

 _‘Yes, actually, I know it wasn’t intentional, but, I could hear your porn of choice through my wall and I got off to you getting off to it. May I come inside? Preferably so you can do the same, if you’re as attracted to me as I am to you.’_

But, God, no, he couldn’t do that. A twinge of shame and guilt twisted in his gut. He could jack it to the sounds of Bartolomeo masturbating without losing sleep, but, the thought of telling him how desperately he wanted them to be more than friends still stopped him hard in his tracks.

He just…He needed a reason to be around him, for more than just the few scattered minutes they found between their busy schedules. To talk to him, about everything, maybe, or nothing. To feel his hands against his skin, even if only through a protective layer of latex. 

“I need to make an appointment,” Cavendish blurted. 

Bartolomeo blinked. 

“Like…at the shop?”

Cavendish nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Oh…kay?” Bartolomeo rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Ya could’ve just come by in the mornin’, or called the shop or somethin’.”

“Right.” Cavendish laughed nervously, wishing he could just get swallowed up in the floor and disappear forever. “I’m probably bothering you. I’m sorry. I’ll come by in the morning.”

Before he could turn, Barto had a hand on his elbow. “No!” he said hastily. “I mean…” Cavendish felt a decidedly appalling thrill at the innocent contact, and a pang of disappointment when Bartolomeo dropped his hand back to his side. “It’s fine. You’re fine, Cabbage. Are ya wantin’ a tattoo or a piercing?”

“Piercing,” he said quietly, avoiding Bartolomeo’s eyes. 

“Hm.” The sound was noncommittal, but when Cavendish glanced back up, there was a glint of something dangerously tempting in his gaze. “Takin’ me up on my suggestion?”

“Um, no. I was thinking about my belly button, actually.” He raised a hand to run absently through his damp hair and Bartolomeo’s eyes fell to the exposed line of his stomach as his shirt rode up.

“Oh. Yeah?”

“Yeah. I uh…” Cavendish suddenly felt a little insecure, and more than a little silly. “I’m not too old for that, am I?”

“How old are ya?”

“Twenty-six.”

Bartolomeo looked a little surprised. He shook his head. “Nah. But, I mean, even if you’d said you were a remarkably good-lookin’ fifty, the answer’s still no. I had a guy showin’ me pictures of his grandkids on his phone while I pierced his taint like two weeks ago. Shit like that don’t matter. It’s your body, do whatever the hell ya want with it.” Cavendish couldn’t help his wince and Barto smirked. “Don’t knock it till ya try it, Cabbage.”

“Stop trying to get in my pants, Rooster,” Cavendish countered, pretending that he didn’t hear the way Bartolomeo’s breath stuttered out of rhythm. 

“You’re the one askin’ to get pierced by my needle.” Bartolomeo grinned as Cavendish snorted his unwilling amusement at the absolutely horrid euphemism. Chuckling, he returned to the actual matter at hand. “Ya wanna come by tomorrow morning if you’re not workin’? My schedule’s open till noon. You can look at the jewelry we’ve got and see whatcha like and then if you’re still feelin’ it I can go ahead, if you’re well suited for it.”

“Sure. Yeah. Is ten okay?”

Barto shrugged. “Fine by me.”

It was actually 9:50 when Cavendish showed up, his heart pounding away in the pit of his stomach as his nerves sparked in constant waves of anxiety. 

“Mornin’, Cabbage.”

Bartolomeo was behind the register, and other than Hawkins seated on the couch with a client interested in his non-tattoo services, the lobby was empty. The steady flip of Hawkins’ cards filled the silence until Cavendish managed to find his voice. 

“Good morning.”

“C’mere.”

They met over the display case, but this time, Bartolomeo was much more professionally-minded, and he didn’t so much as cast Cavendish a sly glance as he began to point toward a few different pieces. 

“I recommend titanium,” he began. “And a bent barbell for your starter. I can always help ya switch it out later once it’s healed if you wanna try somethin’ different, but that’s gonna be a while, even if ya do everything you’re supposed to.”

Cavendish nodded in acknowledgement. He had read about that, and knew he had a long period of healing to look forward to. 

“What about this one?”

He pointed toward one with a simple silver ball at the top end and a small blue crystal at the base. His gaze was a little teasing when he looked back up toward Barto. “To match my eyes.”

Bartolomeo snorted, cheeks coloring. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the key for the case, withdrawing Cavendish’s barbell of choice and then jerking his head toward the back room. “Let’s go.”

Cavendish felt a surge of relief when he saw that the curtain to Nojiko’s cubicle was drawn, and when Bartolomeo followed him into his own he did the same, making a vague gesture for Cavendish to sit in the hydraulic chair as he dragged a stool over next to it and lowered it into a reclined position. 

“Get comfy.”

He snapped on a pair of gloves as Cavendish got settled and then lifted a hand, the pierced ridge of his brow cocking upward in a silent question that Cavendish answered with a nod. His hand skirted over Cavendish’s lower belly, pushing his shirt up out of the way and then shifting back down to brush over Cavendish’s navel. When Bartolomeo dipped his finger into it with a slight furrow to his brow, Cavendish let out a hitching gasp, a shameful spark of sensation shooting down from the point of contact to the brief twitch of his cock. Barto’s eyes flicked back up toward his face. 

“Ya good?”

Face burning, Cavendish nodded. “Uh huh. I just, um…” He swallowed, thick and audible, flexing his hands where they were fisted on the arms of the chair to try and redirect his blood flow. “It’s sensitive. Always has been.”

Bartolomeo stared at him for a second, then dragged his gaze back down to where his finger was still pressed into Cavendish’s navel. “Oh.”

A palpable tension settled over them, heavy and oppressive. It was silent save for the sound of Cavendish’s shallow breathing, and he considered getting up and just running for the door before, preferably, packing his bags and moving far far away. The thought had barely crossed his mind when Bartolomeo shifted, and it flew out just as quickly, replaced by a blank surge of pleasure as the latex of Barto’s glove dragged across his skin. 

A sound entirely too close to a whimper escaped his lips and when Bartolomeo looked back up toward him his eyes were dark and hooded. Cavendish didn’t know what was more mortifying: the fact that he was already half-hard and only getting harder, or the fact that Bartolomeo seemed equally as affected. 

“I, uh…” Barto withdrew his hand, both of them settling back in his lap as his fingers curled absently over his spread knees. “I’m gonna—I’ve gotta—” He cocked a finger in the direction of the lobby and cleared his throat. “Be right back.”

Cavendish nodded, eyes wide and a little panicky as Bartolomeo shoved his stool into the wall in his haste to get out of his cubicle. 

Evidently, several members of the usual crew had appeared in the few minutes that they had been in the back, because four pairs of eyes all turned in Bartolomeo’s direction as he came bursting out of the back room. He was already rattled enough without their scrutiny and he stared back with wide eyes for a moment before bolting for the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. 

The moment he was alone he had his hands in his hair, tugging fruitlessly as he swore viciously under his breath. “God. Shit. _Fuck_.”

He’d known that agreeing to pierce Cavendish might be a mistake, and that was _before_ he found out that apparently, the other man’s navel was an _extremely_ goddamn erogenous zone. Getting physically stimulated during a piercing was fine, unavoidable sometimes, and Cavendish was being rather respectful about it, all things considered. But it was decidedly unprofessional for Barto to be getting horny about the little sounds he was making at every brief contact, and to be thinking about how much louder Cavendish might be if he was riding Bartolomeo’s cock in the hydraulic chair instead of getting pierced in it. 

**_“Fuck.”_ **

Scrubbing his palms over his face in an aggressive gesture, Bartolomeo threw the bathroom door open and stalked back into his studio. For a few long seconds, the lobby was dead silent. 

“The fuck was that about?” Zoro grunted, brow furrowed. 

Hawkins let out a short, noncommittal hum as he began to reshuffle his cards. “You didn’t know?”

“Know what?” Nami asked, already leaned in and ready to receive whatever incoming gossip Hawkins was about to deliver. 

“He’s piercing Cavendish right now.”

“Oh my _God_.” She slapped a hand against Zoro’s arm and earned a scowl in return. “Where?”

Hawkins tapped a finger against his stomach. “Navel.”

Usopp heaved a dramatic sigh. “Poor Barto.”

When the curtain pulled back and Bartolomeo moved immediately to change out his gloves, Cavendish watched him with a timid, guilty expression.

“I’m sorry—” he started, only to be interrupted when Bartolomeo held up a hand and settled back onto the stool beside him. 

“Don’t be. You’re fine. I just had to pee. But uh, good news. You’ve got a perfect belly button for piercin’, so, whenever you’re ready, we’re all set.”

Cavendish visibly relaxed, but didn’t fail to notice Bartolomeo’s reluctance to meet his eyes. “Oh. Okay. Great. I’m ready then.”

“Alright.” He bent his head over his stomach, the warmth of his breath making the toned muscles of Cavendish’s abdomen jump beneath his pale skin. Bartolomeo placed a steadying hand over his stomach, and Cavendish tried desperately to think about everything except the way that his large fingers nearly spanned the width of his waist. With his other hand, he carefully disinfected the surrounding skin and then made a mark just a bit above the dip of Cavendish’s navel. 

“That spot look good to you?”

Cavendish craned his neck to look down at it and then nodded. “I think so. You’re the professional.”

Bartolomeo nodded vaguely in reply, his teeth worrying absently over his bottom lip as he double checked to make sure that it was centered before turning away and ripping open a new pouch. 

“Okay, I don’t know what your pain tolerance is, so, normally, there’s just a bit of pressure when I put the needle through, and then a little more when I put in the barbell. If it’s too much and you need a second, just lemme know, and feel free to use my arm as stress relief if ya need it.”

Cavendish nodded, a warm flutter of anticipation rolling through him as Bartolomeo situated the needle and then pushed it through with careful precision. It didn’t hurt as much as Cavendish had been expecting, just a slight sting and a little pressure, as Bartolomeo had warned him, but his nails found purchase in Bartolomeo’s forearm nonetheless, a shaky breath hissing out between his teeth. 

“You okay?”

He nodded again, using the flex of Bartolomeo’s bicep to keep him distracted as Barto grabbed a pair of forceps with his non-dominant hand and pulled the skin taut to help ease the barbell through. He screwed on the top ball of the newly introduced jewelry and then gently caught Cavendish’s wrist to ease his grip as he leaned back. 

“All done.”

Cavendish’s eyebrows rose. He sat up a little to peer down at his stomach, and his own scrutiny ensured that he missed the way that Bartolomeo’s eyes lingered over the piercing. 

“That was it?”

“Yup,” Bartolomeo confirmed. “The hard part’s takin’ care of it.”

He gave Cavendish a few seconds to adjust to the new feeling before easing the chair back up and then following him out to the register. Although Bartolomeo pointedly ignored them, Cavendish colored a little at the sight of the people filling the lobby furniture, and he gave a hesitant wave that was returned with far too many knowing grins and barely contained laughter. 

They all watched openly as Bartolomeo began talking Cavendish through the healing process for his new piercing, leaned on the counter with only a few inches between them as Cavendish listened intently. 

“We’re _sure_ they haven’t banged yet?” Usopp asked, a little incredulously. 

“Oh, come on,” Nojiko answered, having finished her first appointment at approximately the same time Bartolomeo was panicking in the bathroom and being brought up to speed when she joined the others in the lobby. “Barto would be in tears if Cav had actually let him hit that. He’s wrapped so tight around his finger he’s turning into a goddamn corkscrew.” She spun her finger in a demonstrative gesture.

“We need to start a new pool,” Nami piped up, notably not reaching for her own wallet. “None of us went over two months. Clean slate, stick to twenty each.”

There was a moment of contemplative silence, broken by the jingle of the bell over the door. Apoo’s gangly arms came down to drape over Hawkins’ shoulders, but he was swatted away before he could plant his lips on his cheek. 

Looking a little miffed, he glanced around the group, and noted the number of wallets in hand. 

“We payin’ up since they’re over there smoochin’ over the counter?”

Five heads whipped around toward the register to find Bartolomeo and Cavendish decidedly _not_ smooching, although Barto was staring a little dreamily down at Cavendish as he riffled through the bills in his wallet. 

Apoo cackled his amusement. 

“Fuck off, Apoo,” Zoro grouched. 

The older man flapped a dismissive hand. “What are we at now? Two months? I’m goin’ for four then, and this time I’ll be right.”

“Six,” Zoro offered, shrugging to show how little he really cared about the timing, although he was getting tired of the way they were dancing around each other. It hit a little too close to home to how he and Sanji had been for far too long, but he’d be damned if he was going to offer either of the older men advice on how to just get over themselves and fuck through their feelings. 

“Never, at this rate,” Hawkins said drily. His deck offered up the Two of Swords and he blew out a heavy sigh. “A year.”

“A couple more weeks from now?” Usopp mused, uncertainty lacing his tone. “Maybe they just need a little encouragement.”

He tossed his twenty onto the table between them all as Nojiko piped up. “Nine months. I have a hunch.”

Nami tapped her finger against her lips, eyes narrowed as she watched Bartolomeo and Cavendish continue to chat across the counter, their transaction long over. 

“Eight. That’s my lucky number.”

“Since when?” Nojiko asked, only for her younger sister to stick out her tongue in reply. Nojiko looked pointedly toward the pile of money on the table and Nami grudgingly added two tens to the stack. 

“Fuck y’all doin’ throwin’ money all over my furniture?”

Caught off guard by Barto’s sudden arrival, Usopp scooped it all up in his hands with a high, nervous, and very suspicious laugh. “We’re just talking about lunch!”

Barto cocked the ridge of his brow and pulled his phone from his back pocket to check the time. “It’s barely 10:15.”

“B-brunch?” Usopp corrected, adding in a wide, too-innocent grin.

Bartolomeo frowned but didn’t bother pressing. The kids who hung out in his shop were just weird sometimes, and there was enough of his brain still focused on the pretty blue gemstone he knew was now twinkling in Cavendish’s obscenely hot belly button to be suitably distracted. 

“Where’d the ever-enchanting object of your affections run off to?” Nami asked with a needling tone. 

“Work,” Bartolomeo answered, unthinkingly, before flushing as Apoo broke into a boisterous bout of laughter. “Shut the hell up, Apoo.”

Apoo pointedly ignored him. “What flower says ‘I really wanna bang my big, dumb-looking next door neighbor’?”

“He doesn’t—there isn’t—” Bartolomeo was turning red at an alarming rate, his scowl deepening as Zoro snickered. “He just got a new piercing, he probably shouldn’t be bangin’ anyone for _at least_ a few days.”

“Well, ya know, you’re supposed to stick it up his ass, Barto, not his belly b—”

“Get the fuck out.”

“I’m just sayin’—”

**_“Out!”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I end up giving Cavendish a super sensitive belly button in everything I write for these two? I don't know, it's just a headcanon I've got about him, and I decided to finally make it plot relevant. Also, I promise not every chapter is going to end with people betting on these two idiots getting together, it just sort of happened that way for the first two so I could get the timeline I'm using for the rest of the chapters set up.

**Author's Note:**

> I super arbitrarily picked Loguetown for this, but I actually did base its main street off of the main street in the city where I went to college. I got my first tattoo at a parlor/art gallery combo very much like Barto's, which is next to an Adam and Eve shop (but not a florist). It's a cool area, if you're the type to find anything about the American Midwest cool.


End file.
